


By Any Other Name

by f_m_r_l



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_m_r_l/pseuds/f_m_r_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sets a personal goal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kate_Lear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Kate_Lear . Over 3,000 words of "Be careful what you wish for." You wished for Sherlock BBC established-relationship Sherlock/John domestic fluff.
> 
> Thanks to unsettledink for looking it over even though the fluff, it burns; to middletone for her idea; and to queerlyobscure for Britpicking.
> 
> Slightly edited.

It was a lovely and tasteful wedding. Though Sherlock and John’s finances had been stable and profitable for several years, Mummy (you must call me 'Mummy') had insisted on not only footing the bill, but on making all of the major plans regarding accommodations, caterers, etc. Sherlock had not cared, so long as there was a wedding and it made John happy, and John was, as usual, washed away in a wave of Holmesian enthusiasm. John had spent the entire flight to Toronto memorizing his responsibilities for the wedding, the entire wedding gazing in Sherlock's direction (the expensively arranged flowers, the catering, the beautiful and historic building all lost on him), and the reception in a happy daze. Sherlock was certain that John couldn't have said afterward what music was played, what dishes were served, or even whether the cake filling was cherry or lemon. The imported friends and relatives were merry. When the reception was over, the happy couple found that the suite was comfortable and featured a large, sturdy bed; they noticed little else about the place. And though they honeymooned in that suite, the only thing either of them could have told you about the rest of Toronto was that, Hollywood filming locations aside, the local skyline looked little like New York's.

John and Sherlock flew back to London when the week was up. They had just enough time to drop off their luggage and thank Mrs. Hudson for taking care of things before they were off again on a case, one that turned out to be the messy leavings of a sordid custody battle involving jealousy, betrayal, and the kind of machinations in the name of love that might make one doubt the existence of affection at all.

There was the expected opening of packages to delighted and/or acerbic comments, bickering over thank you notes, continuing to become used to the feel of the rings on their hands until it felt unnatural to be without them. As far as Sherlock was concerned, nothing had changed. Wasn't the wedding a legal sign that he wanted to be sure nothing changed? After all, he had decided to spend the rest of his life with John not too terribly long after they'd met. John had taken longer before admitting to himself and others that his place was always going to be at Sherlock's side. He was even more delayed in the realization that he was attracted to Sherlock, but John had eventually recognized the scope and direction of his own feelings. Given that John and he already had the relationship and the commitment, Sherlock had considered the wedding to be something to make Mummy happy, John soppy (he was adorable when he was soppy), and the law more congenial to their rights regarding each other.

So Sherlock was completely unprepared for the first time John introduced him as "my husband, Sherlock Holmes". Though the small diplomatic "do" to which Mycroft had sent them demanded their sharpest attentions, Sherlock's tangled confusion of emotions was so strong that it took him a moment before he could even notice what was going on around him. And that made no sense. 'Husband' was just a word, one that described such a variety of relationships as to be almost meaningless. 'Husband' was merely a position ("like 'Consulting Detective'", said a small voice in the back of his mind).

Oh.

He put that aside to think over when he had a moment. Meanwhile, there was every sign that the hand-off of the stolen plans was about to take place near the punch bowl. Sherlock negotiated his way across the room, dragging John in his wake.

Those thoughts and feelings came back to him later the next night, while John was off at what his old army buddies still called a "boys' night out". The entire building was quiet; Mrs. Hudson must be off to her bridge club. Sherlock knew that there was more gossip than bridge even at the beginning of the evening, and little bridge at all as the night went on, but it seemed to cheer Mrs. Hudson tremendously. Meanwhile, Sherlock was in an eerily quiet flat with only the company of the skull and his laptop.

He was entirely certain that, even were he not the world's only Consulting Detective, he would still be the world's best. But 'husband'? Sherlock began to experience the sort of sinking panic that attacked him every time he wasn't better at something than everyone else around him. (Mycroft, the smug twit, might be the only person who knew how often that feeling hit him.) He wasn't even certain of how to measure the competition. All the conventional things—earning the family income on his own, playing ball with the kids... whatever else husbands did (BORING!)—didn't really fit.

Commercials implied that being a good husband had something to do with diamonds. John had liked it when they'd cracked that diamond smuggling ring together, but that didn't seem like the sort of event upon which it would be reasonable to rely. And except for orchid smugglers, flowers were out of the picture entirely.

Think! People who did something well could work as an example. Sherlock thought back to his parents' relationship. No, that wouldn't work for John and him. It didn't even take brief consideration to realize John's parents' relationship wouldn't be a good model. As for Mycroft's relationship, Sherlock was not even sure if Mycroft was in one. Signs were mixed. Nobody he knew at St. Bart's or the Yard had anything that could be called a functional marriage; it was a problem that often went with those jobs. Once he wrote off what he had observed of Mrs. Hudson's marriage, it appeared he knew very few role models indeed.

He didn’t have any idea how to go about this, or even what it would look like were he successful. Maybe this had been a mistake.

No. It had been the best decision of his life. That much he knew.

Fortunately, the internet was readily available with hordes of tips—less than helpful tips. "Keep the lines of communication open"? He generally kept the phones charged. But sometimes he needed to borrow John's phone, it just couldn't be helped. Maybe they should get a backup phone? He might need to borrow that one, too.

"Be yourself"? Sherlock was already well aware that John wanted him to be better than that. And he was working on it. He was also working on "Show affection". Apparently it included more than just sex and was something that needed to occur on an ongoing basis. As for "Show respect" and "Listen", he respected John and listened to him more than he did any other person on the planet, and was sure John could see it. John was good at that sort of thing.

These weren't sensible, practical tips that he could see himself implementing. Maybe he was coming at this from the wrong angle. What were areas where husbands tended to fall short? Perhaps he could be exceptional there. He typed "How to get your husband to" into the search box.

Do laundry. Do housework. Go grocery shopping. Eat healthy food. Cook. Apparently families needed to do things they enjoyed together, eat together at scheduled times, and discuss plans. He noted the bit on the husband's traditional role of providing discipline, but found not too far into the article that it meant in the field of raising children. The other pages of results could wait. He had somewhere to start.

Laundry had looked simple enough. True, he had always sent it out to be done before John started doing the laundry. But based on the commercials on the telly it was a task meant for smiling idiots.

"Sherlock, why are there all these new clothes in my side of the wardrobe?" John was carrying a green cashmere jumper that set off his eyes—Sherlock was glad to see the colour worked so well—and some casual trousers in a conservative grey flannel.

"It's time to expand and cultivate your sense of style. Really, you're representing me and our business every time you're seen in public. People will think I don't give you any spending money", Sherlock conveyed with as much hauteur as he could summon.

"What happened to my old clothing?" John set the jumper and trousers down and started rummaging around behind things, under things, anywhere a pile of old jumpers and comfortable jeans might be waiting.

"Hmmm." Sherlock became suddenly and completely immersed in the crossword puzzle, oblivious to all else. After all, the lines of communication were still open; John could text him any time he felt the urge.

It took a while before John was able to answer his own question, but it turned out that he _had_ absorbed something of Sherlock's methods. Sherlock noted that John might be useful for searches and tracking in the future, but was careful not to look up from the crossword. "Sherlock, was this some sort of experiment? Did you prove your client couldn't have committed the crime because he would never be able to fit into a child's size mauve Aran jumper?" John shoved a misshapen, shrunken rag directly under Sherlock's nose, entirely ruining the pretense of the crossword puzzle.

Sherlock sighed. They would have to talk.

John eventually accepted Sherlock's apology and his assurances that he was trying to help. They agreed that Sherlock did not actually want to clutter up his "hard drive" with all of the minutiae of laundering clothing harmlessly. He could help, when he felt absolutely compelled to do so, by calling the laundry service he had used before John came along.

When they were finally able to laugh about it—after John had re-outfitted himself with a new assortment of cozy jumpers, rather ordinary jeans, and uninspiring shirts—John agreed that it was one of the sweetest things Sherlock had ever done. And every time John caught sight of a particular shade of mauve, Sherlock could see the laughter in John's eyes.

Sherlock thought that last bit of communication had gone particularly well.

The cleaning should have gone well. When Sherlock was done, everything in the flat that could reasonably be expected to be sterile and free of toxins was sterile and free of toxins. Everything else was clearly labeled. And it was all organized by the most logical system possible.

But the moment John had walked in the door and looked up from the putting down the groceries, a skeptical expression had appeared on his face. Sherlock observed John visually checking him for signs of intoxication or trauma, finally settling back in to an expression of worried but pleased puzzlement. This had lasted until John went to make dinner.

"Sherlock?" John was staring into the kitchen cabinet anxiously.

"Yes." Sherlock looked down into his crossword puzzle. Wonderful thing, crossword puzzles.

"Where is my chilli powder?" John began jumbling the beautiful, perfect order of the cabinets by shoving items around randomly in his search.

"I've collocated the spices you use most frequently onto the lower shelf of the cabinet to the left hand side. It made the most logical sense."

"But my chilli powder is supposed to be between the cardamom and the cinnamon. It always has been. How am I going to find things?" John gazed deeply into the cabinet as though about to find the answers in the back, near the mustard seed and herbal tea.

"Logic. You almost never use the cardamom or the cinnamon, so why would they be taking up some of the most convenient space, right next to the spice you almost always use?"

John moved on to inspect the other cabinets. "And these dishes. You do realize that the dishes you put away still have grit on them?" John was, by this point, waving a tea cup around.

"Last week, when I tried my solution that removed dirt, you were upset because it removed the lino. This doesn't remove anything, but it sterilises everything and detects toxins. If there were the slightest amount of anything toxic in that cup, it would be stained bright blue. The cup is completely harmless and ready for use." Sherlock smiled up at John, certain of his point.

"I know that I suggested you cope with your boredom by organizing your things, but this is just not on. "

Things gradually drifted back to their prior locations as John found them and used them. After Sherlock finished sulking, John and he reached an agreement about the proper locations and labeling for biohazards and toxins and the importance of cleaning hazardous spills quickly, then they returned to leaving John in charge of making sure things were clean enough, one way or the other. John was very happy with the new sterilising and toxin detection solution once it wasn’t a substitute for cleaning.

Despite the complications, Sherlock judged that this recent attempt had gone fairly well. He had come up with some working solutions and been useful around the house. That was better than average, right?

It was precisely seven o'clock at night when Sherlock turned to John in the cab and handed him a natural energy bar, unwrapping one for himself and taking a bite. John stared at him . "What's all this about? You never eat when you're on a case."

"Dinnertime is very important, John. This thing is not as healthy as it claims, but it is organic. Or at least not inorganic. " John continued to look on in bewilderment as Sherlock finished eating his energy bar. "Eat up, we have five minutes before we arrive. We'll be too busy running to eat once we get there."

John hurriedly started eating and had managed to finish chewing by the time the cab door opened and Sherlock launched himself into the night.

It was precisely seven o'clock at night when Sherlock called John in from the sofa to examine three casseroles, identical in external appearance.

"One is low in fat, one is low in salt, and one is the control. Obviously, I'm not telling you which is which. Eat up!" Sherlock dished out three identical portions for each of them and shoved a fork into John's left hand. John was too astonished by the sight of Sherlock eating his own dinner, cleansing his palate and making notes between bites of different casserole, to start eating until Sherlock gestured for him to go ahead. "I'll need to record your impressions once you've had a chance to try the food." Sherlock went back to scribbling into a notebook, pausing only for a new bite.

It was precisely seven o'clock at night when Sherlock emerged from what had gradually become "his" kitchen wearing his apron. The kitchen had achieved a location-intensive and practical degree of cleanliness and order (Sherlock's order); Sherlock didn't want anything to contaminate his 'cooking experiments'. Sherlock made sure that body parts and the like had their own section of the refrigerator and that, no matter which groceries he ordered, there was always room for the milk John brought home. John likewise had his own shelf in the cabinets for tea supplies.

The apron, which read "Baking is Science for Hungry People", had been sent by a fan of John's blog. Sherlock complained that it should be a lab coat but wore it with a ridiculous amount of flair. Sometimes it almost seemed to not clash with everything else he had on.

Sherlock put down the two bowls of chicken soup he had been carrying, one on the table in front of John and one at his place. There had been weeks of seven o'clock meals since that first energy bar, all of it in one way or another "good for you". (John had seemed particularly appreciative of the "full of antioxidants" dark chocolate cake.) They had both come to expect their dinnertime together, with John gravitating towards their table at seven whenever they weren't on a case or at a restaurant and Sherlock keeping various healthy snacks in his pockets for whenever they were on the run.

Sherlock carefully threw the apron onto just the right pile before slouching into a seat across from John. The table was reasonably clear, or at least clear enough for two fairly adept men to balance their own bowls and a bottle or glass. Dinner was a time to relax with each other without the distractions of the telly in front of them. It had come to involve a certain amount of conversation—discussion of cases, plans, items of interest, practical matters that arose when two people of very different priorities attempted to share their lives with each other.

John looked up from the soup with a smile and then pulled Sherlock across into a kiss. His eyes were soft. "Brilliant how you always deduce what I need. It's been a long week, and this is exactly the soup my mother used to make to cheer me up."

"Harry gave me the recipe," Sherlock stated. "Apparently chicken soup is good for, er..." Sherlock turned ever so slightly pink and stared over John's shoulder, "um, that is, the soul." He could tell by John's smile that he'd gotten this right. And when John kissed him again, Sherlock added 'husband' to the list of things at which he excelled.


End file.
